


aggravations and mecha stations (these are murphy's constellations)

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Underage Drinking, music and art and all kinds of lovely things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4422971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke and Murphy are falling into old habits, but they just don't feel the same.</p><p>Of course, there might just maybe possibly perhaps conceivably likely perchance with realm of possibility be a reason for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	aggravations and mecha stations (these are murphy's constellations)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome n00b. If this is the first time you've come across this series, I highly recommend reading from the beginning. This is all written very much like a very painfully slow chapter fic with a lot of mindless fluff instead of story. Nice. Enjoy, or don't. I can't tell you what to do.  
> ~  
> Hi there, ya little human who is all caught up now (or has been)! So I DID decide to continue, I'm sorry about the titles and the summaries, I truly am, and that's all I'm gonna say about this one.
> 
> This installment is my favorite so far. Be warned.

  Clarke turned over in her cot, unable to sleep, across the room from his. She eyed his bare legs, bent into ‘L’ shapes as he curled into himself, merely decorated by a bloodied bandage on his right thigh and crimson cuts crisscrossing his knees. His toes twitched in his black socks, one foot rising to itch lazily at his shin. His briefs were oxford blue save for the thin white band around his waist. A white tee softened by wear shifted with the rise and fall of his chest, and had ridden up as he tossed and turned in his sleep, exposing his pale stomach. Clarke’s lips curved into a small smile as she snuck a peek at his bellybutton. He was an innie.

His sleeping face was truly a marvel to behold. Sharp lines and jagged edges became soft and calm. His eyes, -that, when opened, were fierce and perfect photographs of the blue-green waters that they crossed to find one another- closed doors under lash awnings. His thick brows were relaxed, released from their usual angry pull. She followed the steady slope of his nose to a point, and considered the way it bumped against her cheek when they brushed lips that morning, beneath green trees and grey skies and the weight of the world.

Clarke felt her stomach churn with the thought. The kiss had been, technically, unpleasant. The air reeked of her own vomit and the same stench clung to the lips that invaded his. She hadn’t asked him. He didn’t appear to mind too horribly but it was wrong of her to assume he would be encouraged by it. It was selfish of her. She hoped her impulsive actions wouldn’t endanger their friendship, but John Murphy was the definition of impulsive. And judging by the little grin that rested on his chapped lips as he slept, he didn’t seem too terribly upset by the incident.

Of course, he could’ve been dreaming of anything when he slept. But Clarke liked to imagine that it was her.

She was just happy he wasn’t screaming his throat dry anymore. It’s the little victories.

Clarke blinked out of her daze, leaning as quietly as possible over the side of her cot to fish through her bag. Her lips twitched at the memory, Murphy holding the gifts behind his back as she watched the sun set beyond the horizon, hugging him tightly without an idea in her mind of how important he would become to her.

 The corners of the pages in the notebook were dog-eared and her pencil had snapped in half during the rough journey, but everything was still usable. So she’d put it to use.

She scooted to rest her back against the chilled wall, turning her notepad horizontally against her knees. For a moment she worried she had forgotten how to capture beautiful things with a pencil between her fingers and a surface beneath her, but then her hand began to travel across the page seemingly on it’s own. She couldn’t forget if she tried.

-

It seemed like hours had passed-and they had- when Clarke was adding the finishing touches to what she would consider her newest masterpiece. Adding the tiniest of details, natural light glossing over the sheets pooling at his ankles, nearly microscopic strokes of graphite rising from unruly chocolate locks splayed wildly across a pillow.

Rubbing gently at the almost-painless red marks her watch left on the skin underneath itself, she glanced at the time. She realized it was late afternoon now, and Lexa- the Commander-‘s messengers would be at the gates anytime soon. She quickly tossed her little sketchbook aside, sliding off of the cot onto the floor to find the more Ark-looking clothes that Abby had sent with Murphy. However, when she tugged on the sheet to bring her pencil halves to the floor, the notebook fell with them, opened to a new page.

She flipped through the first few lined pages, having forgotten what else was in the notebook, admiring page after page of half-assed doodles and miniature sketches. Among the pictures were several of the same two people, a girl with her arms wrapped tightly around a boy’s neck as he raced across a beach, the same boy smoothing down a bandage on the girl’s palm, the both of them swinging pillows in only their oversized tees. Her personal favorite was one of the more inexplicable drawings, featuring the boy and the girl swinging their bare legs over the side of a pool table, adorned in only their underwear and matching silk robes.

The Ground had been a series of both pleasant and utterly horrifying adventures, but there was none quite like the story of Murphy and Clarke.

A sudden snore startled her out of her daydream, and Clarke palmed at her teary eyes, cursing whatever spell had been cast upon her to make her so easily emotional these days.

It didn’t have to be over.

Did it?

-

Clarke returned from the meeting at the gate with a sour stomach. The masked men on tall black horses spoke of a gathering at a large hut on the outskirts of TonDC, and confirmed that they would send scouts in two days at sunrise to lead the way for them.

Of course, it wasn’t only the meeting that left her feeling wrong.

She stepped up to the door of the compartment and allowed the system to scan her card, glancing nervously at the figure hovering behind her. She leaned into the door and spoke to the sliver of light that shined through, murmuring, “Murphy, you awake?”.

He hummed in response.

“Decent?”

He hummed again.

“Civil?”

No confirmation arrived, but Clarke swung the door open anyway, allowing her guest to step inside first. He smiled uncomfortably, taking a seat on the metal chest by the door.

Murphy met her eyes, sitting on her cot with the sketchbook in his hands. She visibly blushed at the knowledge that he now knew what was on those pages, before he closed it and slid it underneath her pillow quickly- as if he had been caught reading her diary. Which, he kind of had.

“What’s he doing here?” Murphy asked quietly, fixing his shirt.

Bellamy scoffed, leaning to dig his elbows into his knees. Clarke took a seat on the edge of Murphy’s cot, shedding her jacket. “We apparently have some catching up to do, and it just so happens that I inconveniently have a roommate.”

Murphy raised a suspicious eyebrow.

“He’s just updating me on the camp, Murph.”

The younger boy nodded slowly, crawling over to his trash bag to snatch a bottle of whiskey from between the other contents, and then proceeded to slink away into the room connected to their meager compartment, graced by only a toilet and a sink. The mechanics and engineers fixed the plumbing to the best of their ability while the pair was gone, something Clarke had earlier observed.

“Why’s he going in there?” Bellamy asked, confusion seeping through his features.

Murphy’s muffled response seeped through the thin metal door. “Don’t worry about me, just have your emotional reunion in peace.”

“What if I wanted an emotional reunion with _you?”_ Bellamy teased, and Clarke was taken aback by the playful gesture directed the younger boy's way.

“You don’t.” Murphy muttered, and the sound of a toilet lid being slammed down signified the end of that conversation.

Clarke’s face was cherry red when Bellamy looked at her again. “Sorry about him.” She murmured.

“Whatever.”

“So…”

“Don’t start, Griffin. We’re not talking about the weather.”

“Griffin?” Clarke repeated, and Bellamy rolled his eyes.

“Sorry _\- Clarke_.”

The blonde crossed her arms, hooking her ankle around the leg of the cot. “What did you so _desperately_ need to talk to me about?”

“Oh, I’m _sorry,_ I wanted to speak with my old friend who up and _vanished_ for over four months and left me to deal with the aftermath of war. _My bad._ ”

Clarke jumped to her feet, a stormy look in her eyes, when the bathroom door creaked open ever so slightly. An interrupting Murphy plopped down on Clarke’s cot again, a glint of that old mischief in his eyes as he placed the rim of a bottle against his lips.

“What are you doing?”

“S’getting heated out here. _I’m_ mediating.”

“Murphy, get out.” Bellamy ordered, and Clarke watched Murphy nervously. It had been a while since someone had attempted to tell him what to do, other than Clarke screaming at him to put the toilet seat down.

Murphy opened his mouth and closed it again, but something told her he had actually wanted to be sent out of the room- especially when he stood and grumbled, “I’ll wait outside.”

When the door slammed behind him, a pair of sweatpants floating ominously away into the darkness, (Clarke almost laughed at the sight), Bellamy pouted his lip and raised an eyebrow, impressed by the obedience of new and improved Murphy.

Clarke rocked back on her heels, pulling her arms tighter around herself. “So… how’s the moonshine been lately?”

“God damn it Clarke.”

-

Murphy shifted on the wooden bench that had been erected against the rear of the station, taking a swig of his drink as he hunted for figures among the stars. He didn’t mind the fresh air, and listening to the happy couple’s screaming match in a cramped bathroom wasn’t his ideal setting anyway.

He considered his days of sitting in this very spot curled around a cup of what might as well have been paint-thinner, staring at the stars when he couldn’t sleep. It was only fitting that John Murphy _2.0_ would have an actual seat when he returned.

But he was the same person, really; the same John Murphy who _deserved_ to sit in the dirt, all while he whispered stories of loneliness into a tin of the stuff that killed his own mother, beneath the constellations among which he lost her.

 He just wanted to be better, to protect himself. He wasn’t interested in being the hero or doing the right thing by others, but preserving his life by playing nice. The bad guys never really won in this story. Well, nobody ever won- but the bad guys didn't even have a chance. He learned that the hard way.

Not to say that he _really_ believed he was _The Bad Guy_. He was more of just, _The Guy Who Was Trying To Be The Good Guy But He Wasn’t The Kind Of Good Guy Everybody Wanted And So He Ended Up Accidentally Being The Bad Guy And Then Nobody Ever Let Go Of Saying He Was The Bad Guy No Matter How Hard He Tried To Be The Good Guy So He Stopped Trying To Be The Good Guy But Now He Wants To Be The Good Guy Because The Good Girl Might Would Keep Him Around A Little Longer If He Was The Good Guy._

Not the catchiest nom de guerre, but it would suffice.

Heavy footsteps to his right derailed his train of thought, footsteps that were too uneven and uncertain to be anyone else’s.

She collapsed next to him on the bench, sweaty face illuminated by the moon and stars hanging overhead. Her breathing was labored when she snatched the bottle of out of his hands and brought it to her lips, removing some kind of cord from her ear.

“Is that-“

She flicked her dark ponytail over her shoulder and grinned, humming a confirmation.

Murphy felt the curious child inside of him jumping, and he willed his anxious hands to stop twitching in his lap.

“Here.” She said, passing him the earphones and taking another sip from his whiskey. His grateful smile became a cringe as he wiped the grime from the buds on the fabric of his pants.

 “Sorry Princess, while you’ve been taking steam showers in your bunker we’ve been avoiding imminent death. Hygiene hasn’t been my top priority.”

Murphy sighed.

She hasn’t changed a bit.

He fit the little white speakers into either of his ears, and words filled his head.

  
_“Although you love me, sometimes you're mean_

_Things can get ugly but we're still a team_

_We are an army, the brakes are within'_

_But, that's why we're stronger and that's how we win.”_

Murphy pulled his legs up to sit cross-legged on the bench, shifting towards Raven. “And you can’t hear this?”

She smiled, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “Nope.”

His face relaxed in amusement as he leaned his head against the station wall.

“Share.” She demanded, and he handed over one of the earbuds, just before slipping the bottle from her fingers.

“Share.” He mocked in response to her offended look, sipping his drink as the soothing sounds of music he couldn’t really relate to but was sure Raven could floated behind his closed eyes.

“How’d you do it?”

“Wick and Monty were bored. Did something with a three-wire connector, logic board, battery, hard-drive, the whole hoopla.”

“I don't know what any of that means.”

“Me either."

"Aren't you a mechanic?" Murphy quirked an eyebrow.

"Tech isn't my specialty. I’m not Einstein, believe it or not.”

“But Wick is?”

“He’s an engineer, at least. I don’t know- ugh, just- stop talking.” She rambled, yanking the whiskey from his hands again.

After a few minutes of silence, Murphy leaned over to look at her, all caramel skin and chocolate hair.

He admired the way she looked so sweet, but could undoubtedly turn you into ash and make it look like an accident.

“Why?”

She kept her eyes closed as a new song drifted between them.

“Why are you out here?”

She inhaled the chilly night-air deeply. He watched.

“I was sorry.”

Murphy, the asshole that he was, wouldn’t just take what he could get.

“So you only came out here because you felt bad for me?”

“What the hell don’t you understand about _sorry_? I planned on apologizing but you were cool enough to not bring up our last interaction- I _was_ having a good time, don’t ruin it now.”

He swallowed hard, leaning back to search the sky once more. It seemed like hours had passed when Raven finally spoke again.

“Giant, exploding balls of gas-“ He hadn’t noticed her eyes on him until she removed them from his face in favor of glaring at the stars “-and all you care about is finding the shape of a god damn soup ladle.”

Murphy chuckled at that, and Raven smiled too.

They fell into another long silence, forgetting to wipe the barely-there grins from their faces. He passed the bottle to her, the next time.

He noticed that usually when the song changed, if it was a soft, sweet song, Raven would skip it. Murphy was definitely not complaining, but he acknowledged that something in the air around them had shifted when she never bothered to change the gentle music that then graced their ears. She was thinking, not listening.

“So you and Clarke screwed.”

Murphy groaned.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You can take it however you want, but it was a no.”

She smirked. “At least you tried.”

“It’s not like that.” He protested, face heating up significantly. 

“Then what’s it like, huh? Having someone actually trust you? You kissing her ass just like everybody else now? I’d like to know how that happened.”

“I thought you two were friends.” Murphy muttered, and Raven chewed her lip. “We are.”

“So what’s the damn issue?”

“You and I _aren’t_.”

Murphy’s eyes drifted to her brace, and when she visibly tensed, they rose again to meet her's- or somewhere in the general vicinity.

“How are you assuming all of this? Have you even spoken to her since we got here?”

Raven rolled her eyes. “I will." She took a long swig of his drink, and with a tilt of her head he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. "But it doesn’t matter. I saw you come in this morning, looking at her like she hung the moon.”

“So what?” He whispered, as suddenly the gravel under his boots became very interesting to him.

Raven’s lip twitched as her eyes met the sky again.

“She looked at you like you hung the stars.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This actually had a pretty depressing alternative ending, but I felt like being nice today.
> 
> SO, here's the catch. You might have noticed this kinda-longer-than-usual-but-not-really-installment appeared a bit sooner than usual. I hope this can hold you over for a little longer wait than the usual 6 days (or somewhere around that) because I'll be going away for a week and I haven't nearly finished the next "chapter"/"Installment"/"whatever-the-heck-im-doing". It shouldn't take but two or three days longer than normal, though. (Hopefully! No promises.)
> 
> My sincerest apologies! Love you guys so much and pretty PLEASE with a stupid little cherry on top let me know what you thought, as usual, in the comments.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me through this story. We'll get there eventually.


End file.
